IRLF 


SECOND  EDITION. 


POEMS 

By  CAROLINE  and  ALICE  DUER 


POEMS 


BY 

CAROLINE    DUER 

AND 

ALICE    DUER 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  RICHMOND  &  CO. 
1896 


COPYRIGHT,  1896,  BY 
GEORGE  H.  RICHMOND  &  CO. 


Press  of  J.  J,  Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York 


PAGE 

1.  AN  INTERNATIONAL  EPISODE       ...         5 

2.  A  SONG            .....  9 

3.  A  PORTRAIT          .           .           .           •  .10 

4.  A  SERENADE    .....  12 

5.  How  CAN  ONE  TELL?     .           .           .  .13 

6.  A  SONNET        .....  15 

7.  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM  .            .  .16 

8.  To  LEEWARD  .....  l8 

9.  AN  EXHORTATION  TO  GENTLENESS         .  .       20 

10.  LINES  FOR  THE  SKULL  AT  THE  FEAST         .  21 

11.  THE  IMAGE  OF  THE  EARTHY      .           .  .22 

12.  COUNT  ME  NOT  LESS ...  24 

13.  AN  APOLOGY         .            .           .           •  .25 

14.  OVERHEARD  IN  A  CONSERVATORY      .            .  27 

15.  To  A  PHOTOGRAPH           .           .            .  .31 

1 6.  THE  YELLOW  AGE      ....  33 

17.  FROM  THE  GERMAN          .            .            .  .35 

1 8.  THE  BROKEN  WHEEL  3A 


305570 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

19.  AFTER  A  YEAR      .....       38 

20.  A  PASSING  FANCY       ....  40 

21.  To  THE  NIGHT-BREEZE    .  .           .           .41 

22.  A  DIALOGUE    .....  42 

23.  A  VIGNETTE           .  .            .            .            -45 

24.  GOOD-NIGHT    .....  46 

25.  A  SONG       ......       47 

26.  THE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  PRESENT       .  .             48 

27.  FROM  PHYLLIS       .  .            .            .            -49 

28.  How  LIKE  A  WOMAN  ...             50 

29.  A  DRINKING-SONG  .            .            .            .52 

30.  MY  ROSE  OF  MAY      ....  53 

31.  A  WORD  TO  THE  WISE    .  .            .            -        55 

32.  THE  SNARE  OF  THE  FOWLER  .            .              56 

33.  "ONCE  I  WENT."     (After  Walt  Whitman.)         .        58 

34.  NOCTURNE       .....  6° 

35.  WASTED  TIME       .  .           .           .           .62 


POEMS. 

AN   INTERNATIONAL   EPISODE. 
MARCH  15,  1889. 

WE  were  ordered  to  Samoa  from  the  coast  of  Pa 
nama, 
And  for  two  long  months  we  sailed  the  unequal 

sea, 

Till  we  made  the  horseshoe  harbor  with  its  curv 
ing  coral  bar, 
Smelt  the  good  green  smell  of  grass  and  shrub 

and  tree. 
We  had  barely  room  for  swinging  with  the  tide — 

There  were  many  of  us  crowded  in  the  bay  : 
Three  Germans,  and  the  English  ship,  beside 

Our  three — and  from  the  Trenton,  where  she  lay, 
Through  the  sunset  calms  and  after, 
We  could  hear  the  shrill,  sweet  laughter 

Of  the  children's  voices  on  the  shore  at  play. 


POEMS. 


We  all  knew  a  storm  was  coming,  but,  dear  God  I 

no  man  could  dream 
Of  the  furious  hell-horrors  of  that  day  : 
Through  the  roar  of  winds  and  waters  we  could 

hear  wild  voices  scream — 
See  the  rocking  masts  reel  by  us  through  the 

spray. 
In  the  gale  we  drove  and  drifted  helplessly, 

With  our  rudder  gone,  our  engine-fires  drowned. 
And  none  might  hope  another  hour  to  see  ; 

For  all  the  air  was  desperate  with  the  sound 
Of  the  brave  ships  rent  asunder — 
Of  the  shrieking  souls  sucked  under, 

'Neath   the  waves,  where  many  a  good  man's 
grave  was  found. 

About  noon,  upon  our  quarter,  from  the  deeper 

gloom  afar 

Came  the  English  man-of-war  Calliope  : 
"  We  have  lost  our  anchors,  comrades,  and,  though 

small  the  chances  are, 
We  must  steer  for  safety  and  the  open  sea." 


POEMS. 


Then  we  climbed  aloft  to  cheer  her  as  she  passed 
Through  the  tempest  and  the  blackness  and  the 

foam : 
"  Now,  God  speed  you,  though  the  shout  should  be 

our  last, 

Through  the  channel  where  the  maddened  break 
ers  comb, 

Through  the  wild  sea's  hill  and  hollow, 
On  the  path  we  cannot  follow, 
To  your  women  and  your  children   and  your 
home." 

Oh  !  remember  it,  good  brothers.     We  two  people 

speak  one  tongue, 

And  your  native  land  was  mother  to  our  land  ; 
But  the  head,  perhaps,  is  hasty  when  the  nation's 

heart  is  young, 

And  we  prate  of  things  we  do  not  understand. 
But  the  day  when  we  stood   face  to  face  with 

death, 

(Upon  whose    face    few    men    may  look    and 
tell), 


POEMS. 


As  long  as  you  could  hear,  or  we  had  breath, 
Four  hundred  voices  cheered  you  out  of  hell. 

By  the  will  of  that  stern  chorus, 

By  the  motherland  which  bore  us, 
Judge  if  we  do  not  love  each  other  well. 

c.  D. 


POEMS. 


A  SONG. 

DEAREST  dear,  if  thou  wouldst  measure 

What  to  me  is  measureless, 
Half  the  pain  or  half  the  pleasure 

Of  my  love's  great  tenderness, 
I  will  touch  my  heart-strings  for  thee, 

Since  to  thee  it  doth  belong, 
And  the  echo  shall  adore  thee 

In  a  song  within  a  song. 

As  the  sun  is  to  the  flowers, 

As  the  stars  to  midnight  skies, 
As  the  rainbow  to  the  showers, 

As  the  light  to  sightless  eyes, 
As  the  flame  is  to  the  fire, 

As  the  breeze  is  to  the  sea, 
As  the  gain  to  the  desire, 

So,  dear  heart,  art  thou  to  me. 

C.  D. 


io  POEMS. 


A   PORTRAIT. 

A  MAN  more  kindly,  in  his  careless  way, 
Than  many  who  profess  a  higher  creed  ; 

Whose  fickle  love  might  change  from  day  to  day, 
And  yet  be  faithful  to  a  friend  in  need  ; 

Whose  manners  covered,  through  life's  outs  and  ins, 

Like  charity,  a  multitude  of  sins. 

A  man  of  honor,  too,  as  such  things  go  ; 

Discreet  and  secret — qualities  of  use — 
Selfish,  but  not  self-conscious,  generous,  slow 

To  anger,  but  most  ready  in  excuse. 
His  wit  and  cleverness  consisted  not 
So  much  in  what  he  said  as  what  he  got. 

His  principles  one  might  not  quite  commend, 
And  they  were  much  too  simple  to  mistake  : 

Never  to  turn  his  back  upon  a  friend, 
Never  to  lie,  but  for  a  woman's  sake, 

To  take  the  sweets  that  came  within  his  way, 

And  pay  the  price  if  there  were  price  to  pay. 


POEMS.  ii 


Idle,  good-looking,  negatively  wise, 
Lazy  in  action,  plausible  in  speech  ; 

Favor  he  found  in  many  women's  eyes, 

And  valued  most  that  which  was  hard  to  reach. 

Few  are  both  true  and  tender,  and  he  grew, 

In  time,  a  little  tenderer  than  true. 

Knowing  much  evil,  half-regretting  good, 
As  we  regret  a  childish  impulse — lost, 

Weaned  with  knowledge  best  not  understood, 
Bored  with  the  disenchantment  that  it  cost  ; 

But,  in  conclusion,  with  no  failings  hid  : 

A  gentleman,  no  matter  what  he  did. 

C.   D. 


12  POEMS. 


A   SERENADE. 

HEARD  you  the  rustle  and  sweep  of  the  rushes  ? 

That  was  my  boat  at  the  mouth  of  the  creek. 
Heard   you  my   step   through   the   solemn    night 
hushes  ? 

Knew  you  the  words  that  my  spirit  would  speak  ? 
Saw  you  a  light  where  the  skies  kiss  the  billow  ? 

That  was  love's  star,  rising  over  the  sea. 
Wake,  then,  beloved,  and  turn  from  your  pillow, 

Loving  and  longing  and  dreaming  of  me. 

c.  D. 


POEMS.  13 


HOW   CAN  ONE   TELL? 

WHO  would  believe  that  under  sunny  skies, 

A  month  ago,  when  summer  kissed  the  land, 
We  read  sweet  stories  in  each  other's  eyes, 

And  laughed  and  loved  and  would  not  under 
stand 

That  Time,  who  changes  all  things  as  he  flies, 
Bids  us  change  too,  in  order  to  be  wise — 

Who  would  believe  ? 


Well,  being  wise,  we  part  without  regret, 

Frank  with  ourselves  and  fickle  with  our  times ; 

But,  though  we  part,  we  need  not  quite  forget, 
In  winter  prose,  the  ring  of  summer  rhymes. 

Fate  cannot  change  the  fact  that  once  we  met : 

We  may  remember  that,  at  least — and  yet 

Be  not  unwise. 


14  POEMS. 


How  can  one  tell  which  way  one's  heart  will  yearn, 

Back  to  the  old,  or  forward  to  the  new  ? 
When  one  is  young,  one  has  so  much  to  learn, 

And  life  is  long  and  all  the  tales  are  true  ; 
And,  peradventure,  we  may  both  return 
To  warm  our  hands  where  once  we  feared  to  burn — 

How  can  one  tell  ? 
c.  D, 


POEMS.  15 


A   SONNET. 

DEAR,  if  you  love  me,  hold  me  most  your  friend, 
Chosen  from  out  the  many  who  would  bear 
Your  gladness  gladly — heavily  your  care  ; 
Who  best  can  sympathize,  best  comprehend, 
Where  others  fail ;  who,  breathless  to  the  end, 
Follows  your  tale  of  joy  or  of  despair  : 
Hold  me  your  counsellor,  because  I  dare 
To  lift  my  hand  to  guide  you,  that  I  lend 
My  love  to  help  you.     And  I  would  you  knew 
That  I  am  fair  enough  to  win  men's  hearts, 
If  so  I  willed  ;  yet  honor  me  above 
All  other  women,  since  I  am  too  true 
To  trap  you  with  my  sex's  smaller  arts. 
Deem  me  all  these,  but  love  me  as  your  love. 

A.  D. 


16  POEMS. 


A   MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S    DREAM. 

WHEN  the  summer  moon  in  her  midnight  madness 
Breaks  through  the  clouds  that  would  veil  the 

night, 
And  the  earth  and  air  are  full  filled  of  gladness, 

And  the  heart  of  man  of  a  vague  delight ; 
When  the  wild  sea-breeze  to  the  land  comes  sob 
bing, 
And  the  wild  sea-waves  clap  their  hands  and 

sing, 

Then  wake,  mad  hearts,  to  your  passionate  throb 
bing, 
For  this  is  the  hour  when  Love  is  king. 

Sing,  too,  O  ye  stars,  in  the  arch  of  heaven — 
The  silence  of  night  doth  madden  the  brain, 

And  the  crash  of  waves  is  too  low  and  too  even, 
Like  some  sad  sweet  chord  struck  again  and 
again. 


POEMS.  17 


Riot,  O  wind,  in  the  meadow's  green  tresses, 
Ripple  the  pools  with  the  rush  of  your  wing, 

Wake  the  white  land  with  your  wanton  caresses, 
For  this  is  the  hour  when  Love  is  king. 

Wilt  thou   come   through  mist  and  cloudland  of 

dreaming, 

Spirit  I  love,  on  the  wings  of  sleep — 
Through  the  night's  dark  space,  through  the  moon's 

white  beaming, 
As  the   spark   floats   down   from  the    meteor's 

sweep  ? 

For  we  are  apart,  but  our  souls'  desire 
Like  fire  to  fire  shall  leap  and  cling  ; 
And  the  flame   of  thought,  by  the  wind  fanned 

higher, 
Burns  through  the  hour  when  Love  is  king. 

c.  D. 


18  POEMS. 


TO   LEEWARD. 

LET  the  boat  drift,  my  lady  and  my  love, 
Thou  in  the  stern,  I  lying  at  thy  feet  ; 

Bend  down  the  eyes  my  heart  was  dreaming  of 
Before  God  put  it  in  my  breast  to  beat. 

Look,  where  the  river  opens  to  the  sea, 

Twilight  is  stealing  onward  lingeringly, 

Between  the  world  and  our  felicity. 


Sing  to  me,  dear — my  soul  was  buried  deep 
Through  all  our  time  of  parting  and  of  pain — 

Sing,  and  the  fires  of  youth  and  life  shall  leap 
From  my  wild  heart  into  my  veins  again. 

Rise,  evening  breeze,  and  drive  the  boat  on  fast ; 

Fall,  evening  mist,  and  hide  us  from  the  past — 

We  take  our  fate  into  our  hands  at  last. 


POEMS.  19 


Close  in  the  girdle  of  my  arms  entwined, 
Rest  on  my  lips  the  softness  of  thy  cheek. 

If  Fate  were  sightless,  must  we  too  be  blind, 
And  let  our  happiness  slip  by  us  ?     Speak  ! 

Over  the  restless  sea  and  quiet  land 

Silence  and  darkness  creep  up,  hand  in  hand. 

Answer  again  !    I  dare  not  understand. 

c.  D. 


20  POEMS. 


AN   EXHORTATION    TO    GENTLENESS. 

You  who  are  strong,  and  do  not  know  the  need 
That  weaker  spirits  feel,  but  do  not  plead — 

The  need  to  lean  on  someone  who  is  strong — 
Oh  !  see  you  give  their  silent  want  good  heed. 

Be  not  so  busy  with  your  own  career, 
However  noble,  that  you  cannot  hear 

The  sighs  of  those  who  look  to  you  for  help, 
For  this  is  purchasing  success  too  dear. 

Many  strong  men  and  good,  I  see,  so  bent 
Upon  their  own  souls'  high  development 
That  they  have  only  scorn  or  tolerance 
To  give  to  those  who  are  not  thus  intent. 

Yet,  who  can  answer  that  it  is  not  true 

That  those  weak  souls  who  spare,  where  blame  is 

due, 

And  smile,  because  too  gentle  to  be  stern, 
Are  not  more  needed  in  the  world  than  you  ? 

A.    D. 


POEMS.  21 


LINES  FOR  THE  SKULL  AT  THE  FEAST. 

DRINK  and  forget  to  reason  : 

Man's  life  is  but  a  season, 

And  pleasure's  lips  are  breathless,  ere   youth   is 
past  its  prime. 

The  rose-red  love  shall  linger 

Till  care  has  touched  its  finger, 
But  only  death  is  deathless,  along  the  road  of  time. 

C.    D. 


22  POEMS. 


THE   IMAGE   OF   THE   EARTHY. 

SLEEP,  tired  eyes.     Your  tender  flame  is  fled, 

As  on  dim  hills  the  watch-fires  had  burnt  low  ; 
You,  who  have  speculated,  wondered,  read, 
Viewed  the  hereafter  with  a  passionate  dread, 
When  next  those  white  lids  open,  you  will  know. 

Sleep,  weary  brain.     Life  is  a  stormy  sky, 

And  we,  like  restless  birds,  tossed  to  and  fro, 
Imperfect  atoms  of  the  eternal  "  why," 
Circling  and  drifting  onward  aimlessly, 

Not  knowing  whence  we  come,  nor  where  we  go. 

Sleep,  wayward  heart.     If  love  were  sinful,  dear, 

Knowing  its  price,  would  we  not  pay  the  whole, 
And  count  the  winning  of  a  life's  love  here, 
The  wild  reality  of  hearts  brought  near, 
Well  worth  the  losing  of  a  phantom  soul  ? 


POEMS.  23 

Sleep  without  fear — death  turns  all  wrong  to  right. 

I  wonder,  shall  we  meet,  dear,  when  I  die. 
Those  who  believe  in  heaven  say  "  good-night "  ; 
But  I,  in  losing  all  my  blind  soul's  light, 

Standing  in  hopeless  darkness,  say  "  good-by." 

Good-by,  dear  heart,  repentance  comes  too  late  ; 

But  if  there  be  a  heaven  beyond  the  sky, 
And  you  should  chance  to  find  the  golden  gate, 
By  all  our  happy  past,  I  pray  you,  wait, 

Lest  my  lost,  lonely  spirit  pass  it  by. 

c.  r>. 


24  POEMS. 


COUNT  me  not  less  thy  friend  because  my  heart, 
Blinded  a  moment  by  the  light  of  youth, 
Leaped  toward  thee  ere  it  took  thine  estimate, 
And  knew  no  leap  might  carry  it  so  high 
As  where  thy  heart  beats  lonely.     Count  me  not 
The  less  thy  friend  in  that  I  love  thee,  dear. 

c.  D. 


POEMS.  25 


AN  APOLOGY. 

SOME  wayward  tide  in  memory's  sea 

Has  borne  my  thoughts  back  to  the  turning 
When  Fate  first  taught  to  you,  through  me, 

A  lesson  hardly  worth  the  learning  ; 
Showed  you  that  changeful  looks  could  prove 

Fit  emblem  of  the  heart  they  cover  ; 
Showed  you,  alas  !  the  more  we  love, 

The  less  the  loved  is  worth  the  lover. 


And  though  the  story  now  is  old, 

Your  loyalty  would  still  forbid  you 
To  show  me  that  your  thoughts  could  hold 

One  token  of  the  wrong  I  did  you. 
And  yet,  my  dear,  within  your  heart 

Some  faint  resentment  must  have  tarried  ;. 
Though  Fate  had  used  a  worthless  dart, 

The  wound  was  none  the  easier  carried. 


26  POEMS. 


Forgive  me,  many  days  there  are 

Since  then. — Do  those  a  whole  life  leaven  ? 
And  you  and  I  have  drifted  far, 

Though  not,  perhaps,  much  nearer  heaven. 
Forgive  me,  dearest,  not  because 

Years  certain  suffering  have  brought  me — 
Not  for  the  sake  of  what  I  was — 

But  for  the  sake  of  what  you  thought  me. 

C.    D. 


POEMS.  27 


OVERHEARD  IN  A  CONSERVATORY. 

HE  (after  a  pause)  : 
Dear,  are  you  angry  ? 

SHE: 

Yes,  though  not  at  you, 

But  at  myself.     Of  course,  we  know  it's  true 
That  when  a  man  respects  a  girl     .     .     . 

HE  (interrupting)  : 

I  thought 

You'd  say  that.     It's  the  nonsense  girls  are 
taught. 

You  know,  as  well  as  I  do,  I  revere 

You  more  than  any  other  woman,  dear. 
SHE  (indignantly)  : 

You'd  not  have  done  it  to  Elfrida  Hood. 
HE: 

Immortal  gods  !  I  shouldn't  think  I  would. 
SHE  (haughtily)  : 

If  this  but  seems  to  you  fit  food  for  jest 

I  say  no  more.     Silence  were  plainly  best. 


28  POEMS. 


HE  (very  seriously)  : 

Dear,  if  I  jest,  it  is  because  I  read 
The  hopelessness  of  aught  that  I  could  plead 
In  your  stern  eyes,  which  righteous  wrath  be 
tray. 

Were  you  another  woman,  I  should  say 
That  you  were  fair,  and  I,  it  seems,  was  mad, 
But  that  the  last  long  waltz  that  we  had  had 
Might  very  well  have  turned  a  wiser  head. 
A  hundred  things  like  this  I  might  have  said 
To  women  who  would  take  them  as  excuse. 
You  think  none  possible — so  what's  the  use  ? 

SHE: 
Then  why  discuss  it  further  ?     Let  us  go. 

HE: 

One  minute  !     I  should  like  you  first  to  know 
I  did  not  think  that  this  would  be  the  end 
When,  two  weeks  since,  you  said  you'd  be  my 
friend. 

SHE  (reflectively)  : 
Only  two  weeks. 


POEMS.  29 


HE: 

Not  long,  'tis  true,  and  yet, 

You've  stopped  my  doing  much  I  should  re 
gret. 

Nor  should  I  murmur  that  you  teach  how  far 
More  hard  than  others  all  good  women  are. 

SHE  (emphatically}  : 

That  is  not  true,  indeed  it  is  not  true. 
Some  men  I  could  forgive  this,  but  not  you. 
You  would  go  home,  and  smile,  and  think  I 

meant — 
I  viewed  it  merely  as  a    ... 

HE  (politely)  : 

Precedent ! 

Was  that  the  word  ?    Indeed,  in  this  respect 
You  wrong,  to  say  the  least,  my  intellect. 
If  you  forgave  me,  I  should  understand 
Just  what  it  meant      .     .     . 

SHE  (hastily)  : 

Oh,  please  let  go  my  hand  ! 

Here  is  papa,  who  comes,  I  know,  to  say 
That  it  is  late,  and  time  to  go  away. 


30  POEMS. 


HE: 

I  do  not  care  a  bit  how  late  it  is, 

I  only  know  we  cannot  part  like  this. 

Show  me,  at  least,  you  do  not  doubt  my  sorrow. 

SHE  (hesitatingly}  : 
Well — come  as  usual  at  five  to-morrow. 

A.  D. 


POEMS,  31 


TO   A   PHOTOGRAPH. 

YOUR  stern  young  face  looks  out  to-night, 

From — most  incongruous  of  places — 
My  toilet-table's  rose  and  white, 

Half-hidden  by  its  frills  and  laces  : 
Set  with  no  gold  nor  precious  stone, 

But  thrust  into  my  mirror's  moulding, 
That  the  same  scroll  that  frames  my  own 

Should  have  yours,  too,  within  its  holding. 

Absurd  that  I  consult  your  eyes, 

Half  in  excuse,  half  in  defiance, 
Lest  some  of  my  frivolities 

Should  break  our  fanciful  alliance  ; 
Absurd  indeed,  that  I  should  care 

For  your  boy  scorn  or  disapproval, 
When  the  same  hand  that  placed  you  there 

Has  but  to  rise  for  your  removal. 


32  POEMS. 


Yet  if  I  took  you  from  your  place, 

Each  night  my  weary  eyes  would  miss  you  ; 
And  so,  dear,  stay  :  perhaps  your  face 

Will  look  less  stern  each  time  I  kiss  you. 

c.  D. 


POEMS.  33 


THE  YELLOW  AGE. 

THIS  is  the  age  of  grasping  hearts  and  hands, 
Of  hurrying  feet  and  greedy,  watchful  eyes 

Turned  to  the  worship  of  the  Golden  Calf, 
Sneering  down  other  idols  with  a  laugh, 

Throwing  down  other  prizes  for  this  prize  ; 
Bowing  before  the  priest  who  understands 
Its  myst'ries  best  in  this  and  other  lands. 


These  are  the  glittering  days  of  gilded  show, 
Of  brazen  tongues — of  envy,  jaundice-eyed 

And  covetous  of  all  that  gold  controls  : 
This  is  the  age  of  brains  instead  of  souls — 

The  yellow  age,  where  purses  measure  pride. 
Even  the  flame  of  love,  blown  to  and  fro 
By  jealous  winds,  burns  with  a  saffron  glow. 


34  POEMS. 


Look  well,  O  world,  before  Time  turns  the  page, 

The  gaudy  pageant  passes  through  your  street ; 
The  envious  apes  rage  in  your  market  place — 

Science  and  art  are  breathless  in  the  race 
For  fortune,  where  for  fame  they  did  compete. 

The  yellow  fever  of  the  yellow  age 

Has  spread  from  slave  to  king,  from  fool  to  sage. 

C.  D. 


POEMS.  35 


FROM   THE  GERMAN. 

ONCE  for  thy  brow  a  wreath  I  wished  to  wind, 
And,  seeking  long,  I  could  no  flowers  find. 

Now  golden  flowers  are  blooming  far  and  near, 
But,  ah  !  dear  love,  thou  art  no  longer  here. 

A.  D. 


36  POEMS, 


THE   BROKEN   WHEEL. 

PATIENCE,  poor  heart  !     To-night  thou  shalt  have 
rest — 

Rest,  that  I  buy  thee  at  the  price  of  life. 
Let  those  with  strength  and  courage  stand  the  test, 

Here  will  I  end  the  strife. 

Time's  haggard  eyes  hold  many  tears  like  me, 
Not  worth  God's  smile  in  life — much  less  his 
frown — 

If,  by  its  weight  of  wretchedness  set  free, 
One  heavy  tear  drop  down. 

Call  you  it  sin,  O  seekers  after  Truth — 
Sin,  that  I  enter  at  Death's  open  door  ? 

So  be  it.     I  was  worthless  from  my  youth  : 
What  matters  one  sin  more  ? 

But  if  my  faults  were  great,  my  hopes  were  few  : 
Who  can  do  battle  with  a  breaking  heart  ? 

I  have  deserted  from  the  ranks,  and  you 
Will  take  no  rebel's  part. 


POEMS.  37 


I  have  made  way  for  other  fools  to  prate, 
For  other  eyes  to  seek  for  what  is  not, 

For  other  hearts  to  fight  against  their  fate, 
While  youth's  wild  blood  is  hot. 

I  but  return  to  God  life's  borrowed  spark 
(Doubtless  there  is  a  God  in  Israel)  ; 

My  eyes  are  tired,  and  Death's  halls  are  dark  : 
May  I  sleep  long  and  well. 

C.    D. 


38  POEMS. 


AFTER  A   YEAR. 

YES,  you  have  guessed  it.    Do  not  blame  me,  dear. 

Indeed,  I  did  not  dream,  O  tender  eyes, 
When  first  we  met,  that  in  a  little  year 

My  words  would  dim  you  with  pain's  dumb  sur 
prise. 

Do  not  reproach  me,  for  I  suffer  too — 
An  agony  of  shame  and  self-contempt ; 

And  know  that  I  shall  miss,  far  more  than  you, 
The  lost  illusions  of  this  dream  we've  dreamt. 

Why  did  you  ever  learn  to  love  me,  child  ? 

If  you  had  let  me  only  be  your  friend — 
Instead  of  weeping,  had  you  only  smiled 

Coldly,  I  might  have  worshipped  to  the  end. 

Worthless  and  aimless,  what  I  was  you  knew, 
By  all  the  wretched  past  to  you  confessed ; 

The  one  good  in  me  was  my  love  of  you, 
And  that  has  proved  as  fickle  as  the  rest. 


POEMS.  39 


Ah  !  dear,  the  worst  wrong  in  this  world  of  shame, 
The  hardest  question  to  explain,  is  why 

Women  like  you,  who  barely  know  sin's  name, 
Can  be  so  wounded  by  such  men  as  I. 

A.  D. 


40  POEMS. 


A   PASSING  FANCY. 

I  CAME  from  my  box  at  the  play,  last  night, 

As  a  face  in  the  crowd  flashed  past : 
Time  was  when  those  eyes  were  my  eyes'  best  light. 

And  my  heart  at  that  name  beat  fast. 
And  yet,  when  we  met  in  the  hurrying  stream, 

I  sighed  not  as  much  of  a  sigh 
As  if  it  had  been  but  the  part  of  a  dream 

I  had  dreamed  in  the  days  gone  by. 

Though  we  die  with  our  hand  in  the  hand  we  love, 

We  may  wake  to  its  touch  estranged. 
If  the  love  that  we  loved  so  indifferent  prove, 

May  not  love  we  love  now  be  changed  ? 
And  our  souls  in  some  heaven  may  pass  and  sigh, 

Half-ashamed  of  the  life  they  knew  : 
*'  Ah  !  how  fond  beat  the  heart  of  what  once  was  I, 

For  the  sake  of  what  once  was  you." 

c.  D. 


POEMS.  41 


TO   THE   NIGHT-BREEZE. 

BREEZE  of  the  night,  across  my  pillow  straying — 

Breeze  of  the  night,  of  summer  dews  begot, 
Salt  from  the  sea-shore,  where  the  waves  are  play 
ing, 

Slow,  to  and  fro,  my  window  curtains  swaying — 
Cool  my  flushed  cheeks,  by  recent  sleep  left  hot. 

A.  D. 


42  POEMS. 


A  DIALOGUE. 

HE. 

I  AM  in  trouble,  give  me  your  advice. 

SHE. 
No,  for  I'm  sure  'twould  not  be  carried  out* 

HE. 

It  shall,  I  swear  it  shall,  at  any  price. 

SHE. 
If  that's  agreed,  what  is  this  all  about  ? 

HE. 

How  can  I  win  a  woman  who  is  fair 

And  cold  ? 

SHE. 

Be  colder. 

HE. 

But  she's  proud  as  well. 

SHE. 
Be  prouder. 


POEMS.  43 


HE. 

But  she  does  not  seem  to  care, 
Nor  notice  when  I'm  near. 
SHE. 

How  can  you  tell 

Whether  she  does  or  not,  until  you've  tried 
Not  being  near  ?    Avoid  her,  let  her  see 
The  change,  and,  should  chance  place  you  at  her 

side, 
Be  colder,  prouder,  civiler  than  she. 

HE. 
But  if  she  cares     .     .     . 

SHE. 

Then  it  will  break  her  heart, 
Which  will  be  easier  won. 

HE. 

'Tis  too  severe 
On  me  :  I  could  not. 

SHE. 

Then  you'd  better  part. 
HE. 
Is  this  your  counsel  ?    Well,  good-by,  my  dear. 


44  POEMS. 


SHE. 
Stay,  there's  one  thing  to  do  before  you  go. 

HE. 
What? 

SHE. 

If  you  really  love  her,  tell  her  so. 
Perhaps  you'll  find  her  kinder  than  you  know. 

A.  D. 


POEMS.  45 


A  VIGNETTE. 

CUPID,  playing  blind-man's  buff, 

Seized  my  Psyche's  floating  tresses. 
"  Here  is  silken  clue  enough 

To  dispense  with  any  guesses. 
This  is  Psyche's  golden  fleece  : 
She's  my  prisoner,  past  release." 
But  the  lookers-on  declare 
Love  was  caught  in  Psyche's  hair. 

c.  D. 


POEMS. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

DEAREST,  good-night !     The  darkness  spreads  her 

wings 

Over  the  restlessness  of  human  things, 
And  stills  awhile  the  tumult  of  the  day. 

We  were  together  not  two  hours  ago, 
Playing  our  parts  before  the  world's  great  show, 
Saying  the  words  set  down  for  us  to  say. 

Yet  are  we  nearer  now  than  we  have  been, 
Though  the  long  streets  lie  silently  between, 
Though  all  the  world  should  stretch  between  us 
two. 

Think  of  me,  dearest,  not  as  I  was  then — 
That  was  a  worldly  woman  among  men  : 
This  is  a  lonely  woman  who  loves  you. 

c.  D. 


POEMS.  47 


A  SONG. 

IF  I  were  only  a  ray  of  the  sun, 

How  I  would  steal  through  your  lattice  at  morn, 
Touch  all  the  things  you  had  touched,  one  by  one, 

Sparkle  and  dance  on  the  gems  you  had  worn, 
Trembling  and  hoping  to  see  in  the  glass, 
Trace  of  my  light  in  your  face  as  you  pass. 

If  I  were  only  a  breeze  of  the  night, 

How  I  would  sigh  of  my  love  and  despair, 

Kiss  your  soft  cheek,  or  your  lips,  if  I  might, 
Chase  the  white  moonbeams  that  lie  in  your  hair, 

Hushing  the  nightingale,  for  while  he  sings 

You  might  be  deaf  to  my  whispering  wings. 

If  I  were  only  a  wave  of  the  sea, 

Born  like  a  sigh  from  the  breast  of  the  deep, 
Knowing  the  end  of  my  journey  to  be 

Death,  when  life's  gift  were  most  worthy  to  keep, 
Yet  would  I  laugh  while  my  broken  heart  beat : 
Death  were  life's  crown  if  I  died  at  your  feet. 

c.  D. 


48  POEMS. 


THE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  PRESENT. 

LIVE  for  to-day,  that  sows  and  shall  not  reap  ; 

Live  for  to-day,  that  reaps  and  has  not  sown ; 
Raise  to  thy  lips  the  cup  of  life,  drink  deep  : 
Bordered  and  bounded  by  the  sea  of  sleep, 

The  kingdom  of  the  present  is  thine  own. 

Through  yesterday,  perhaps,  sad  echoes  rise 

From  shadowy  pasts — hold,  then,  to-day  more 

dear. 

Rest  and  content  thee  in  its  sunny  skies, 
And  to  the  future  look  with  passionless  eyes, 
That  are  below  all  hope,  above  all  fear. 

To-day  I  reign  a  Queen  and  thou  a  King — 

To-morrow,  food  for  worms  !  but  now  no  worse 
Because  Time  slips  us  off  his  golden  ring, 
Because  to-morrow  Death  may  break  the  string 
That  binds  the  unit  to  the  universe. 

C.    D. 


POEMS.  49 


FROM  PHYLLIS. 

DEAREST,  I  read  the  books  you  sent,  because 
You  sent  them — but  they're  far  too  grave  for  me. 

I  like  not  serious  stories,  nor  wise  saws, 
Chilling  my  youth  with  fear  of  ills  to  be. 

But  be  not  angry,  since  at  your  request 

I  read  them  all,  and  found  the  love-tale  best. 

Yet  that  was  sad,  too,  and  one  sentence  there 
Tried  and  tormented  me — that's  why  I  write. 

You've  read  the  book.     Do  you  remember  where 
The  hero  was  made  prisoner  in  the  fight  ? 

The  heroine,  to  save  her  lover's  life, 

Renounced  him  and  became  his  rival's  wife. 

And  he  reproached  her  :  "  Were  I  in  your  place 

My  life  without  you  had  been  little  worth." 
"I'd  live,"  she  said,  "through  pain  and  through 

disgrace 
To   know   you   lived,   though   dead    to   me   on 

earth." 

Dearest,  this  troubled  me,  because,  you  see, 
I'd  rather  die  than  have  you  dead  to  me.          c.  D. 


50  POEMS. 


HOW  LIKE  A  WOMAN. 

I  WANTED  you  to  come  to-day — 

Or  so  I  told  you  in  my  letter — 
And  yet,  if  you  had  stayed  away, 

I  should  have  liked  you  so  much  better. 
I  should  have  sipped  my  tea  unseen, 

And  thrilled  at  every  door-bell's  pealing,. 
And  thought  how  nice  I  could  have  been 

Had  you  evinced  a  little  feeling. 

I  should  have  guessed  you  drinking  tea 

With  someone  whom  you  loved  to  madness ; 
I  should  have  thought  you  cold  to  me, 

And  revelled  in  a  depth  of  sadness. 
But,  no  !  you  came  without  delay — 

I  could  not  feel  myself  neglected  : 
You  said  the  things  you  always  say, 

In  ways  not  wholly  unexpected* 


POEMS.  51 


If  you  had  let  me  wait  in  vain, 

We  should,  in  my  imagination, 
Have  held,  what  we  did  not  attain, 

A  most  dramatic  conversation. 
Had  you  not  come,  I  should  have  known 

At  least  a  vague  anticipation, 
Instead  of  which,  I  grieve  to  own, 

You  did  not  give  me  one  sensation. 


A.    D. 


52  POEMS. 


A   DRINKING-SONG. 

DRINK,  from  the  flowing  measure, 

Health  to  the  God  of  the  golden  Wine  ; 

Taste  of  the  cup  of  pleasure 

Freely,  while  youth  is  thine. 
Thy  weary  brain  from  the  dry  champagne 

A  merrier  mood  should  borrow  : 

The  wise  are  sad,  but  the  fools  are  gay, 
And  the  rose  that  we  plucked  but  yesterday 

Will  be  faded  and  dead  by  to-morrow. 

Drink,  for  the  hours  are  flying  ; 

Youth  is  fleeting,  but  age  is  slow  : 
Sorrows  for  which  thou'rt  sighing 

Melt  from  thy  sight  like  snow. 
Thy  weary  brain  from  the  dry  champagne 
A  merrier  mood  should  borrow  : 

The  wise  are  sad,  but  the  fools  are  gay, 

And  the  life  that  we  lived  but  yesterday 
Is  the  death  that  we  die  to-morrow. 

C.    D. 


POEMS.  53 


MY  ROSE   OF   MAY. 

THE  sunlight  lingers  on  the  hill, 

For  love  of  you,  my  rose  of  May  ; 
I've  lingered  here,  against  my  will, 

For  that  same  reason,  many  a  day. 
"  The  sun  comes  back  to-morrow  !  "    True  ! 

By  then  I  shall  be  far  away. 
Perhaps  he's  nothing  else  to  do  ; 

I  own  I  have,  my  rose  of  May. 

In  old  days  women  ruled  the  world, 

And  men  knew  how  to  wait,  they  say  ; 
But  love-locks  now  have  come  uncurled 

And  chivalry  has  passed  away. 
Man  has  found  out  he  has  a  will : 

If  too  exacting  prove  your  sway, 
Why,  Jack  will  find  another  Jill, 

Less  hard  to  please,  my  rose  of  May. 


54  POEMS. 


Next  time  Love  finds  your  garden  gate, 

Ah  !  lift  the  latch,  my  rose  of  May  ; 
Don't  leave  him  there  to  watch  and  wait — 

Believe  me,  dear,  it  doesn't  pay. 
When  chance,  like  a  resistless  tide, 

Sweeps  opportunities  your  way, 
Ah  !  take  the  goods  the  gods  provide, 

When  they  provide  them,  rose  of  May. 

C.    D. 


POEMS.  55 


A  WORD   TO    THE   WISE. 

IF  wisdom's  height  is  only  disenchantment, 
As  say  the  cynics  of  a  certain  school, 

And  sages  grow  more  sad  in  their  advancement, 
Then  folly  is  the  wisdom  of  the  fool. 

Since  fools  know  happiness  through  lack  of  knowl 
edge, 

And  see  things  fair  because  they  shut  their  eyes, 
Then  anyone  can  tell,  who's  been  to  college, 
That  wisdom  is  the  folly  of  the  wise. 

c.  D. 


56  POEMS. 


THE    SNARE   OF   THE    FOWLER. 

"  Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps." 

I  WRITE  for  those,  of  whom  I  know  a  few, 
Young,  pretty,  and  a  little  bit  flirtatious, 

Who  would  do  even  more  harm,  if  they  knew 
The  science  of  the  Art  of  being  Gracious. 

Science  in  any  game,  we  know,  will  tell, 

And  those  who  play  this  ought  to  play  it  well. 

First,  do  not  doubt  that  rivals  please  a  man 
(Not  too  successful  ones,  'tis  understood) — 

They  flatter  him  as  nothing  you  do  can, 
And  give  him  certainty  his  taste  is  good  ; 

And  though,  at  times,  a  little  in  his  way, 

They  make  him  find  the  house  he  haunts  more  gay. 

Do  not  abuse  the  girls  he  likes — 'tis  far 

From  wise — for  he  will  only  think  you  spiteful ; 

Praise  them,  and  show  how  ludicrous  they  are, 
And,  ten  to  one,  he'll  find  the  joke  delightful. 

From  which  I  draw  this  never-failing  rule  : 

Love  lives  through  slander  but  not  ridicule. 


POEMS.  57 

Do  not  appear  incredulous  of  vows, 
As  is  the  way  of  self-distrusting  youth  ; 

A  little  doubt  civility  allows, 

But  not  too  long  should  you  impugn  their  truth. 

In  short,  if  you  would  give  true  satisfaction, 

Express  belief  in  words,  and  doubt  in  action. 

Should  the  day  come  when  he  is  not  the  same, 
Do  not  reproach  and  treat  him  like  a  sinner — 

The  fault  is  yours.     Find  out  the  lady's  name, 
And  be  a  friend,  and  ask  them  both  to  dinner  ; 

And,  I  have  heard,  the  game  not  always  ends 

When  two  old  lovers  change  to  two  good  friends. 

A.  D. 


58  POEMS. 


"ONCE   I   WENT." 

A    PARODY. 

ONCE  I  went  to  Long  Island  City,  prepared  to 
take  the  train  for  Jamaica,  Babylon,  Islip, 
Oakdale,  Bayport,  Patchogue,  Moriches,  and 
the  Hamptons. 

I  had  with  me  all  things  which  could  combine  to 
conduce  to  my  comfort.  These  are  the  things 
I  never  forget. 

Soon  I  sought  out  the  parlor-car  porter — ebon- 
visaged,  gold-capped  : 

"  O  official  of  the  Long  Island  Railroad,  O  man, 
O  black  brother,  the  best  seat  for  me,  and 
there,  take  my  bag,  umbrella,  hot-water  tin, 
overcoat,  and  goloshes." 

That  one   flew,   flat-footed.      I    followed.       The 

crowds  observed  me. 

I  entered  the  car,  and  selected  someone  else's 
place  by  the  window. 


POEMS.  59 


Assured  of  my  comfort,  shortly  the  train  started. 

Oh,  Hunter's  Point !  Oh,  flat  and  uninteresting 
landscape  !  Oh,  Newtown  Creek  !  Oh,  hell ! 
oh,  smell !  who  can  describe  you,  nose-absorb 
ing,  resistless  ? 

I  might  have  slept,  but  the  newsboy,  vociferous, 
importunate,  entered  : 

"  Here  you  are  !  All  the  latest  magazines — Har 
per's,  Scribner's,  The  Century,  Lippincotts, 
Frank  Leslie,  The  Cosmopolitan,  The  Indies* 
Home  Journal,  Puck,  Judge  and  Life,  Town 
Topics — just  out." 

I  hated  that  newsboy  ardently.  The  dust  blew  in 
my  face,  a  cinder  got  in  my  eye,  the  window 
shut  on  my  thumb,  the  train  stopped  at  other 
stations  than  mine. 

But  now  I  know  it  was  all  for  the  best,  for  had  I 
not  these  discomforts  endured,  I  should  not 
have  written  this  song,  and  what  would  you 
have  done  then  ? 

A.    D.    AND    C.    D. 


60  POEMS. 


NOCTURNE. 

i. 

IN  the  shade  of  the  trees  it  is  night, 

But  out  here  bright  as  noon  ; 
All  the  garden  lies  brilliantly  white 

In  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  the  rose-laden  air  breathes  delight, 

And — love  passes  so  soon. 

ii. 
From  across  the  far  fields  comes  the  sound 

Of  the  sea  on  the  shore  ; 
So  the  love  of  all  time  echoes  round 

The  wide  world  o'er  and  o'er. 
But  our  love-time  is  brief — and  when  found 

Shall  we  waste  it  the  more  ? 

in. 
From  the  branches  I  brush  as  I  pass 

Fall  the  dewdrops  like  rain, 
And  the  wind  in  the  trees  sighs  "  Alas," 

And  is  silent  again. 


POEMS.  6l 


But  no  faint  footstep  rustles  the  grass, 
And  I  listen  in  vain. 

iv. 
O  my  lady,  your  garden  lies  fair 

In  the  light  of  the  moon  ; 
It  is  midnight — but  why  should  we  care  ? — 

In  our  hearts  is  high  noon. 
Life  is  sweet  as  the  rose-laden  air, 

And — love  passes  so  soon. 

C.  D. 


62  POEMS. 


WASTED    TIME. 

Now,  some  people  there  be 

Who  would  argue  with  me 
On  the  pleasure  of  working  for  working's  sake, 

Of  the  joys  that  you  find 

When  you  force  your  mind 
New  mountains  to  climb  and  new  pathways  to  take. 

Now  they  learn  how  to  cook 

From  a  cookery  book  ; 
They  nurse  the  poor  sick,  or  go  visiting  crime  : 

Seven  fads  in  a  day 

Are  not  too  much,  for  they 
Would  do  anything  rather  than  waste  their  time. 

There  are  classes,  indeed, 

Fit  for  anyone's  need  : 
To  play  cards,  the  piano,  or,  sometimes,  the  deuce  ! 

To  make  Browning  seem  plain, 

To  paint  castles  in  Spain — 
But  if  you've  no  talent,  why,  what  is  the  use  ? 


POEMS.  63 

And  a  few  collect  things, 

Such  as  butterflies'  wings, 
And  I  collect  words  into  versatile  rhyme ; 

Yet  I  think,  on  the  whole, 

For  the  good  of  my  soul, 
I  should  rather  do  nothing  than  waste  my  time. 

C.  D. 


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